Chapter II
Football?
Brendan, Wee Sean and the Priest found themselves quite a surprise. They
took one outbuilding at a time, entering and taking stock of what they found.
They found a well opening in one building, and indoor plumbing in one.
They also found the armory, and as the British promised, it was well stocked.
One wall held nothing but shelves and shelves of explosives. They noticed
dynamite and wondered how easy it would have been to damage railroad tracks and
British boats if only they had something that stable to work with. Maybe, just
maybe, Liam would still be with them if he had dynamite that night instead of
gelignite. On another shelf they found gelignite. They steered away from that.
Giant crates holding new weapons, everything from Thompson machine guns to
handguns, were stacked along a middle aisle. They found bullets and blasting
caps, fuses and timers. They crossed themselves, thanking God for such great
wealth, and then tiptoed from the building.
They toured the main residence and were happy with the wealth in
furnishings they came across. A nicer surprise surfaced on the way out. They
found the main kitchen at the back of the house. On perpendicular walls, two
giant arches opened into spotless hearths. A larger wrought iron stove with its
belly door opened, dripped cinders and coals onto the floor. Beside that
someone had stacked a full cord of wood. Father Patrick’s attention was drawn
to a wooden work table. Sunday was coming, and as of yet, no one had thought
about what to use in place of the altar stone. He turned slowly, rubbing the
stubble on his chin, as Brendan latched on to the handle of a locked larder
door.
Wee Sean disappeared, returning moments later, carrying with him a mallet
and chisel. Before the sun set completely, the whole of them removed the lock
and the door, and broke it into pieces. Beyond that, they found full barrels.
“Flour,” said the Priest with a smile large enough to light the night itself.
“Sugar, salt and yeast. I know what to do with that.”
Brendan held up an unfamiliar glass bottle. “Scotch whiskey? I doubt I’ve
ever saw this in the hands of a good Republican.”
“Seeing where it comes from, are you planning to drink that?” Wee Sean
asked, reaching out to touch it.
“Sure. We’ll be returning it to England on the first boat to pass us by.”
He laughed. Placing the bottle between his knees, he unwrapped the cork, and
struggled to yank it out. It came with a pop. Father Patrick wiped his hands
together as Brendan lifted the bottle to his lips. The first bite of good
liquor choked him. Father Patrick took it away, he laughed himself and hefted
the bottle. Wee Sean waited his turn, ready to reach up and retrieve the bottle
for himself.
Outside, Sprite made friends. The trio emerged from the house, stores in
hand, finding that small yellow dog Sean had described earlier. Sprite lifted
his huge head, barked and looked to be smiling. He yowled at Brendan, saying
something important. Still reclining, he inched towards the wee dog. Staying
low, the wee dog backed away. Father Patrick pulled something from his coat
pocket and tossed it his way. Whatever it was, the dog grabbed it and scurried
off. Sprite wagged his tail and followed the men off.
* * *
In short order, walls went up, chickens were fed and housed, and fields
were planted. Men slept under tents made from woolen blankets at night, and
when the rain, mist and high winds made that impossible, they didn’t sleep.
Wives arrived early on most mornings, and returned to Killelea late at night.
Brendan met his wife when she emerged onto shore. “I’m guessing that
you’ll rebuild the pier soon,” she commented. Enid Kelly didn’t reach his
shoulder. She pulled her dark hair to the back of her neck in a knot. She was
pudgy, which was surprising. She ate no more than anyone else, and she worked
as hard as anyone. It just seemed her body grew out in odd directions. She
owned a weak chin, small soft jowls, and the skin above her eyes drooped.
“Soon,” Brendan replied with a smile. Should he kiss her hello or not? As he leaned towards her, she pulled aside, her attention turning towards the town
of Fenton. He drew away, sneezing into his fingers as if he had to.
“So, Father Patrick, Wee Sean. How has it been with the whole of you? Are
you getting along?”
“Getting along fine,” he answered directing her along the walkway. Sprite
fell in on the opposite side. Enid didn’t like the dog, and the dog didn’t seem
to care for Enid. “With Jeremiah Corrigan and Rory Murphy that is. Old Man
Keenan is another matter. I’m doubting that anyone can get along with himself.”
“And I’m always thinking ‘tis the Old Lady who’s so difficult.”
“Aye, ‘tis both of them.” Brendan glanced at his wife. “Will you be going
back tonight then?”
“Aye.” She smiled, nodding at Wee Sean, who hurried to meet his wife. She
turned nearly around, following him. “As many bairnes as they have, it makes me
wonder….” He glanced back in time to see Wee Sean reach up and peck Maureen on
the lips. Maureen had him by at least three fingers, but then every adult in
Innisfen and Killelea had passed him by. “I’m hearing rumors, mind you, that
she’s with child again….”
*
Liam regretted the day his near sister arrived. Although Brendan drank
himself to sleep each night, and awoke holding his head each morning, the
expression of dullness he assumed on her arrival was worse by far.
Enid, with the help of Maureen Darcy, Maureen’s eldest daughter, Mary
Murphy and Old Mrs. Keenan took over the cooking duties, allowing the Priest to
return to Killelea. Old Canon Hanrahan, the tottering old fool, claimed to be
needing his help.
Liam spent many lonely hours watching Wee Sean build pens and repair
walls, and envied him the camaraderie he shared with Rory Murphy. Brendan
Kelly, alone with his seeds, and alone in his fields, was not lonely. He talked
to the winds, the seeds, the soil and to Liam himself. If only Brendan could
hear Liam’s answer.
Bridey spent her hours in the sun stretching and listening to the women
as they labored over a weak peat fire. She reported later that Maureen and Wee
Sean’s eldest, Deirdre, developed an eye for Connor Corrigan. “And how many
years ago would it be, that Wee Sean would have locked her in the closest
nunnery rather than to see her with the likes of him?” She laughed and clapped
her hands as she related the discussion, and maybe, just for a moment or so,
her cheeks turned rosy again.
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